Marcus and Claire Forever [Short Story]

[Valencia Donahue]

Marcus and Claire Forever

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Genre(s): Mystery, Suspense, Romance

Inspiration?: "Pushing Daisies"

Extras: This is written primarily for my Creative Writing class, but I really like how it's turning out. If there are sections where the grammar got awkward, I only plowed through to knock writers' block on its ear. All critiques, comments, and corrections are welcomed.

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A dim mist drifts into the cemetery at twilight, blanketing the dreary gathering of tombs as a pair of crows sought one another’s warmth in the trees. As I wander past and through the rows of headstones. I read and forget every name I see. The ones that take a while to read are remembered only a second longer. The sun sets even deeper and the names become more difficult to read. The letters vanished into the night as easily as the names they form and the only thing the dead and living shared was the experience of sleep.

Will I be just as forgotten when the light recedes? Will my identity be confined to a box when warmth eternally leaves my fingertips? It looks inevitable and the destiny seems to be universal… Until I saw a name I knew. I cried and my tears gave me the heat in my fingers to feel the engraved letters in stone until dawn. The sun rose and the rays restored my visibility and revived the dead.

As I headed back to town, I saw the funeral director’s son, the dashing gravedigger. He looked much more attractive than he had before as he unearthed the ground and flung dirt to his side. Other times he looked very dignified and solemn while standing beside his portly and miserly father, especially times like during my husband’s funeral. In every essence of the saying, he was very tall, dark, and handsome in his pitch black suit. I felt ashamed to be thinking about these thoughts after visiting my husband’s grave, so I quickly looked away the moment the gravedigger noticed me. I took a few steps on the gravel, then looked back, thinking he lost interest, and found that he was still watching me. He smiled and tipped his hat at me, causing me to blush and hurry along on my way.

When I made it back to town, I was greeted by my typical companions who shared my grief and offered their condolences. The shoemaker would comment quietly about how my husband always bought shoes at his shop. The pie maker would lament that she’ll miss my husband stopping by for a slice, a cup of coffee, and a friendly chat. The seamstress would recall how he didn’t complain whenever she took her time repairing my clothes. The town gossip would keep me updated on the mysterious murderer on the loose who killed my husband, then constantly reassure me that justice will be served. The wandering missionary and nun both believed that God did not wish for me to suffer and that everything was part of his master plan. The funeral director simply told me that my husband was in a better place, then walked away to carry on with his business while polishing something shiny and puffing on his cigar.

What happened in the graveyard was still on my mind though. I was hurt by my husband’s sudden departure, but it wasn’t as though I wanted to forget him. The connection we had was profound and beautiful and there was nothing in the world that could separate us until that fateful night. Venturing into the kitchen of my home, I pondered over how love may be my chains of suffering in this world. I felt that I couldn’t move on in my life as long as I remembered my love. Everything I did reminded me of him. When I washed the dishes, I reminisced about how we used to do it together and laugh at the incident when the stout funeral director almost buried our neighbor because everyone thought the sleeping old woman was dead. The funeral director was so eager to get her underground too! When I looked at the time, the memory of my husband looking at his golden pocket watch would come. Back then I never had to look at a single clock because his golden pocket watch was more accurate than any clock in town I could look at. He was so proud of his watch, with its unique engravings of lions, unicorns, and dragons, because he had made it himself. Rumor had it that he finished his creation on our wedding night.

Then, there was that guilty feeling I had each time the handsome gravedigger entered my musings. It happened more than it should. It became noon, so I went out to have lunch with my friends as I usually would. When I sat down between the town gossip and the nun at the local café, they were knee-deep in discussing the mysterious murderer and speculations about his appearance. Instead of speaking up, I was too busy daydreaming about the gravedigger. He was young and appeared to get along well with everyone. He was by no means a loner and had a playful attitude you wouldn’t expect from someone who worked with dead people. In other words, there was always at least one person with him, dead or alive. He was popular too and I could only imagine how proud his penny-pinching father was of his son because the gravedigger always looked clean, healthy, and even rich whenever he wasn’t burying someone.

Suddenly, the gossip snapped her fingers in front of my face to wake me up from my wonderings, and asked if I ever got to see what the murderer looked like. I replied that I didn’t and the town gossip squealed in delight. According to her, the murderer struck at night and looked like any other person in town. This was based off of her own testimony of seeing him a few nights ago, but no one ever took her seriously unless there was conclusive proof from someone else. The murder had a list he’d always inspect and his weapon was usually a gun if he didn’t kill his victim some other way. Most of the deaths were sloppy attempts to make it seem like an accident and the gossip said she had seen a brief outline of his face when he looked at the time from the palm of his hand beneath a streetlamp. Everyone leaned close to hear the clincher and the gossip thoroughly enjoyed having the entire table literally at the edge of their seats. The seamstress asked the obvious question and the gossip stalled for dramatic effect, now that she had all the attention. With a lift of her head and a tilt to the side, she curtly replied that she couldn’t see any recognizable details from where she looked out her window. Disappointed, everyone fell back into their seats to eat their lunch.

The rest of the meal went by with idle chatter and occasional sympathies about my husband. The nun was the first to finish and got out of her seat slowly and carefully, pushing her chair in and dabbing her lips with a handkerchief. She turned to me gently and told me to be very careful. She cautioned me that although everything was part of God’s master plan, He did not wish for innocent souls to be slain to make a point. She said that He allowed the innocent to protect themselves should they have to and with that remark, the nun advised me to invest in a revolver in case the murderer wanted to claim my life next. I nodded and assured her that I would take her thoughts into consideration. The nun smiled and bid everyone at the table farewell before leaving. It was strange being told by a nun to buy a gun, but I felt urged to comply.

Not long after, I made a little trip to the shops where I did my daily errands. The street wasn’t as busy as it had been a few weeks ago, but the hissing voices dripping with fear and prudence made up for the emptiness, as tiny groups of customers huddled together around a counter or a stand. Every once in a while I would see the town gossip in the thick of it, but I paid her little mind because I had more important things to tend to: buying medicine for my dying cat, paper to write a few letters to my mother and father, and a gun, like the nun proposed. I didn’t know much about guns, but after a few questions here and there, I was directed to a gun shop, which they regarded as dependable. Before I knew it, I found someone I wasn’t expecting… The handsome gravedigger.

It didn’t seem he was expecting me there either, judging by the way he looked up from leaning over the counter, but he smiled and beckoned me to come into the shop after seeing that I wanted to come back later. We exchanged our greetings and I had little else to say, so the gravedigger filled the silence by telling me that he was waiting for the marksman to come from the back of the shop with his delivery. I wondered quietly what would he want here in this gun store, but those thoughts were etched plainly on my face and the gravedigger laughed when he saw my features. He was performing a task for his father because the funeral director was in the next town conducting business. I thought that was a reasonable enough explanation, so I nodded and looked away to hide my reddening cheeks. It was embarrassing to make it appear as though I suspected him of being the mysterious murderer.

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...To be continued.

Part 2 should be up at earliest before Wednesday.

[Valencia Donahue]

Not sure if people actually read this, but here is Part 2 and the Finale.

I'm probably going to publish this...

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The marksman returned with a wrapped box and handed it gently to the gravedigger. We didn’t know each other too well, so when he saw me, he thought I was the gravedigger’s significant other. The gravedigger chuckled as I blushed an even more crimson shade, then told the marksman that I was a different customer. The way he said it implied that we knew each other than he let on, but I reasoned to myself that he was teasing me instead of meaning anything serious. I might be wrong, except I had to purchase a gun. Lacking the expertise to make any decisions I wanted to stick with, both the marksman and the gravedigger assisted me until I was satisfied with the modest revolver they chose for me. As long as it shot to save my life, I won’t regret the choice. Both the marksman and the gravedigger added that I should practice before relying on it to save any sort of life. I paid for the revolver and some ammunition and thanked the two men before leaving the shop. Little did I know that I was being followed until I was halfway home.

The only reason why I was able to detect the extra pair of footsteps was because there was no one else on the cobblestone path but myself and person behind me. My heart was racing and a thousand thoughts crossed my mind as I kept walking. Was this merely someone going the same way I was going? Or was this the murderer I heard about all day? The one that killed many before my husband and only garnered my entire attention recently? My revolver wasn’t loaded and even if it was, I was too terrified to barely consider firing a shot. I resumed my pace as casually as I could, regardless of my trembling body betraying my anxiety. The steps drew closer and only then did I quicken my gait. Suddenly, a gloved hand snatched my shoulder and turned me around to face the stranger. My heart stopped then and there because not only was I scared out of my wits that I would meet the murderer, but instead my eyes met a countenance I was equally skittish of facing. It was the handsome gravedigger again.

I would’ve swooned if I didn’t know better because I saw the same man several times in the same day already. I almost wanted to scream at him for frightening me, yet I probably wouldn’t if I could. The gravedigger wanted to escort me home instead of letting me wander about in the approaching twilight. He apologized for alarming me and explained that by staying out of sight, it would be easier to surprise anyone who would dare ambush me. He changed his plans once I began to notice him since knowing he was around would defeat the purpose of the providing unknown protection. I thanked him again for his support and felt a part of my heart shrink. It was the portion that held my late husband and I was gradually letting the gravedigger enter my life. My ponderings battled back and forth over whether love should stay in the past or be renewed in the present and future. I tucked those meditations away and made my way home with the gravedigger while the sun fell into the horizon.

The sun was no longer in the sky and the only natural light that was still visible was the glowing pink, orange, and purple atmosphere. I unlocked the door to my home as the gravedigger waited and when the door opened, I gave him my gratitude once more. He laughed told me that what he did was nothing and he had nothing better to do while his father was gone anyways. Remembering his father, he took note of the parcel tucked under his arm and recollected that he needed to bring the delivery home before the funeral director returned. The gravedigger then thanked me for giving him my temporary company and strode towards the main road. He stopped by my mailbox and pulled out a pocket watch to see how much time he had left before his father realizes how late his son was. By the faint light of the darkening sky, I was able to see that the watch was gold and had distinct designs I swore that I saw somewhere else.

Something came over me. I immediately wanted to get a closer look at the pocket watch the gravedigger possessed. I almost rushed after him yet I stopped because I had a dying cat I had to tend to and a couple letters to write. Once I was done, it was dark out and even then I felt the need to look at the gravedigger’s pocket watch. Before I pursued my desires, I remembered what the warning the nun gave me. I rushed inside to load my revolver and tucked it into my cloak prior to exiting my home. A steady fall of rain commenced and I didn’t know that my cat would die later that night, that my letters would never be read, and that I would never see my house ever again. All I knew was that I had to examine that watch at all costs.

The downpour drenched me to the bone and my hair was thick with tangles by the time I made it to the huge mortuary where the funeral director and the gravedigger lived. The roar of the storm made it impossible for me to even hear the sound of my fist banging on the door. I rang the doorbell violently, but none heard it. A crackling flicker of lightning above made me tilt my gaze to the heavens. Shelter was another priority and there was nowhere else for me to seek safety aside from the funeral home I wanted to enter. The roll of thunder muffled out my screams and yells and I decided that an alternative was in order. Although the journey to the backdoor of the mortuary was considerably short compared to my journey to the mortuary itself, the storm made the trip a dangerous and arduous one.

The sight of light glowing through a window encouraged me. It was sign that the building was indeed inhabited and that lodging wasn’t far off. My face lit up and I went as close as I could to the window to see the funeral director and the gravedigger sitting together at a table inside. I couldn’t hear a single word between the two because of the storm, but they were having a jolly time raising their glasses and drinking wine. On the table was an assortment of jewelry, swords, silverware, guns, and treasures of all kinds.

The funeral director was smoking yet another cigar as he gloated over the family heirlooms spread out before him. The treasure trove was compiled of the hundreds of belongings that were buried with the dead in the cemetery. Of course, the belongings were never buried. He was a grave robber and everything that shined or had monetary value was held up as though he knew that the dead could do nothing about it. He sorted through his spoils and tossed aside all the cheap, sentimental trinkets. Sometimes the gravedigger would ask if he could keep some of the plunder and being the loving, doting father he was, the funeral director would let him.

Then, the handsome gravedigger pulled out his golden pocket watch and I knew for sure that it was the same exact watch that my husband made. The engravings of lions, unicorns, and dragons were all there and I knew for a fact that no one else in the world could replicate it. The young man dangled the watch from its chain like it was a toy to him and shined it against his shirt like it was made just for him. He said something to his father and the two laughed. He pulled out his gun and faked a shot. His father humored him by pretending to suffer and die. After the little game, they raised their glasses for another toast before guzzling their alcoholic beverage.

I was enraged and couldn’t contain myself any longer. I pulled the revolver from my soaked cloak and fired a round at the gravedigger. I was a terrible shot and hit the mantelpiece, causing the two to jump out of their chairs. I fired again and shot the funeral director and because of my bad aim, his death was excruciatingly painful. The gravedigger drew his gun and shot me in the neck. It was the most painful thing I ever felt in my life, second to the death of my husband. I endured the blood gushing from my jugular and fired again at the gravedigger. Although he was about to dodge, his attempt led to my bullet entering his skull and exiting the other side.

I fell to the sopping, muddied ground and cried whatever tears came to my eyes in agony. Unlike the rain, my tears were warm and from the depths of my heart as well. I avenged my husband and finally knew whom I loved to the ends of the earth. That night, I became the murderer and the murderer of the murderer. I was buried alongside my husband soon after I died. They didn’t clean my body in the slightest and simply placed me into a shoddy wooden box. It didn’t matter to me, though. Once I was put to rest, the stormy days and nights passed. The sun rose and the cemetery became a glorious sight. Everything seemed cleaner and the air was as clean as can be. Raindrops dripped from the branches of trees and a pair of crows nuzzled one another adoringly before flying down to perch on my husband’s tombstone. The light of the sun radiating upon our graves made it clear that I would never forget my love ever again.

We were Marcus and Claire, forever.

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Finito.